George wiped the sweat and grime from his brow and squatted down to inspect the dinged up hulk of metal in front of him. The problem with the moisture condensator became apparent almost immediately when viewed from underneath; a gaping hole pierced through the collection basin filter, big enough for George to put his own hammy fist inside if he wanted to. The farmer swore and pulled himself out from underneath it.
Grave thoughts filled his head as he stared at the dripping mess of tubing and copper pipes. Clogged pipes down here meant no water above deck, no water above deck meant crop wilting. Crop wilting meant starvation or an early stop to trade for food; they’d miss the lucrative trading window and the passengers aboard the Ark II would more than likely get rowdy. Hard to explain to someone that their purchased travel to somewhere else also included two months of waiting around in the sky. He adjusted his overalls and moved over to the intercom at the end of the room. The Horn O’ Plenty rocked slightly, and being adjacent to the engine rooms the air was also filled with the sounds of thrumming electrical engines.
The intercom hissed and crackled lightly as George depressed the button. He waited solemnly, for a reply on the other end before speaking.
“Condenser’s broke.” He gruffly began. “Gonna need some bits n’ ends from the Sleipnir to patch it.”
From where George stood, he could see clearly out one of the Horn O’ Plenty’s portholes over to the rest of the fleet. The Sleipnir flew in close formation, not further than five hundred or so meters away. The steel armored behemoth with its sharpened prow cut an intimidating silhouette through the clouds, guns large and small bristling from it like a porcupine. George had heard the big guns fire only once before, thirty years ago when a moth as big as a cloud had tried snatching up people from the decks on the Horn. Thunderous noise they made. Even now the turrets that held them rotated slowly, scanning the skies vigilantly for more threats.
He’d never been aboard the ship, however. But from what he’d been told it sounded like the gearheads below decks of the dreadnought were always hard at work tinkering with things. If anyone had the expertise to fashion another filter for the water condenser it’d be them.
George heard a brief crackling from the intercom and then some shuffling as the operator clicked and plugged the wires to and fro patching him into the short wave radio system. He looked over at the bridge of the Sleipnir knowing that he’d soon be talking with someone over there. A light tone hummed over the intercom and then it went silent. He squinted at it for a moment and had nearly started asking if anyone was there when it spoke up again.
“This is Alex Toricelli, Quartermaster of the Sleipnir. What business is there that demands my attention?” The voice spoke with military discipline and cadence. George felt taken aback. They patched him through to the Quartermaster directly? He didn’t quite feel that he had been adequately prepared for this. The farmer glanced back at condenser and spoke up, thumb on the talk button.
“This is, uh, George Contralis. Head soil consultant aboard the Horn O’ Plenty. There’s a problem with the water condenser over here and I was hopin’ that I might be able to solicit some help from the gearh- engineers of the Sleipnir. Uh... Sir.” He concluded, hesitating after releasing the button.
Silence issued out of the intercom, along with its standard static hum. After a few moments of standing around awkwardly Georgue spoke up again. “Would that be something the Crew of the Sleipnir would be willing to do, Quartermaster?”
The voice on the other end spoke up quickly this time. “Yes, yes. I’ve arranged for an ornithopter to pick you up for your meeting with the engineers.” The man on the other end paused for a moment before adding “Try and remember your manners, soil consultant Contralis”. The intercom clicked, and the red light beneath the speaker winked out. George huffed. Remember his manners? He looked down at his work clothes. His jumpsuit and suspenders were a grimy blackish brown - years of shoveling and grinding soil from the biological refuse of the ship stained into the once tan cloth. George grumbled under his breath and passed his shift information along to the next workman on the line along with an explanation of why he wouldn’t be back in time for his afternoon shift in case the deal with the engineers took a while. He headed to the showers and pulled his casual jumpsuit out of his locker. After a cursory effort to scrub the dirt out of his beard, hair and hands he dried himself off and dressed.
The walk to the top deck’s landing pad felt slower than usual, George figured that would be due to him not being out of work at this time of the day. Mechanics going to and from all the different substations, rushing around with cans of grease and boxes of tools. As George rounded the spiral stairs up to the deck he halted for a moment to clip his harness to the line before stepping through the oblong pressure door to the top deck.
Wind blew deafeningly through the fabric sheets strung up all over the deck, foiling the wind from blowing the soil and all the plant life off the deck and thousands of feet down and into the ocean. Over the deck he could see hundreds of other skyborn hard at work tilling the soil, the balloon of the nearby Ark II casting a deep shadow that blocked out the afternoon sun. Looking up to it, George could almost make out the aluminum gondola hanging beneath the massive zeppelin’s rigid hull.
He stepped up the stairs to the landing pad and waited, looking out over the horizon far below.
Grave thoughts filled his head as he stared at the dripping mess of tubing and copper pipes. Clogged pipes down here meant no water above deck, no water above deck meant crop wilting. Crop wilting meant starvation or an early stop to trade for food; they’d miss the lucrative trading window and the passengers aboard the Ark II would more than likely get rowdy. Hard to explain to someone that their purchased travel to somewhere else also included two months of waiting around in the sky. He adjusted his overalls and moved over to the intercom at the end of the room. The Horn O’ Plenty rocked slightly, and being adjacent to the engine rooms the air was also filled with the sounds of thrumming electrical engines.
The intercom hissed and crackled lightly as George depressed the button. He waited solemnly, for a reply on the other end before speaking.
“Condenser’s broke.” He gruffly began. “Gonna need some bits n’ ends from the Sleipnir to patch it.”
From where George stood, he could see clearly out one of the Horn O’ Plenty’s portholes over to the rest of the fleet. The Sleipnir flew in close formation, not further than five hundred or so meters away. The steel armored behemoth with its sharpened prow cut an intimidating silhouette through the clouds, guns large and small bristling from it like a porcupine. George had heard the big guns fire only once before, thirty years ago when a moth as big as a cloud had tried snatching up people from the decks on the Horn. Thunderous noise they made. Even now the turrets that held them rotated slowly, scanning the skies vigilantly for more threats.
He’d never been aboard the ship, however. But from what he’d been told it sounded like the gearheads below decks of the dreadnought were always hard at work tinkering with things. If anyone had the expertise to fashion another filter for the water condenser it’d be them.
George heard a brief crackling from the intercom and then some shuffling as the operator clicked and plugged the wires to and fro patching him into the short wave radio system. He looked over at the bridge of the Sleipnir knowing that he’d soon be talking with someone over there. A light tone hummed over the intercom and then it went silent. He squinted at it for a moment and had nearly started asking if anyone was there when it spoke up again.
“This is Alex Toricelli, Quartermaster of the Sleipnir. What business is there that demands my attention?” The voice spoke with military discipline and cadence. George felt taken aback. They patched him through to the Quartermaster directly? He didn’t quite feel that he had been adequately prepared for this. The farmer glanced back at condenser and spoke up, thumb on the talk button.
“This is, uh, George Contralis. Head soil consultant aboard the Horn O’ Plenty. There’s a problem with the water condenser over here and I was hopin’ that I might be able to solicit some help from the gearh- engineers of the Sleipnir. Uh... Sir.” He concluded, hesitating after releasing the button.
Silence issued out of the intercom, along with its standard static hum. After a few moments of standing around awkwardly Georgue spoke up again. “Would that be something the Crew of the Sleipnir would be willing to do, Quartermaster?”
The voice on the other end spoke up quickly this time. “Yes, yes. I’ve arranged for an ornithopter to pick you up for your meeting with the engineers.” The man on the other end paused for a moment before adding “Try and remember your manners, soil consultant Contralis”.
The intercom clicked, and the red light beneath the speaker winked out. George huffed. Remember his manners? He looked down at his work clothes. His jumpsuit and suspenders were a grimy blackish brown - years of shoveling and grinding soil from the biological refuse of the ship stained into the once tan cloth. George grumbled under his breath and passed his shift information along to the next workman on the line along with an explanation of why he wouldn’t be back in time for his afternoon shift in case the deal with the engineers took a while. He headed to the showers and pulled his casual jumpsuit out of his locker. After a cursory effort to scrub the dirt out of his beard, hair and hands he dried himself off and dressed.
The walk to the top deck’s landing pad felt slower than usual, George figured that would be due to him not being out of work at this time of the day. Mechanics going to and from all the different substations, rushing around with cans of grease and boxes of tools. As George rounded the spiral stairs up to the deck he halted for a moment to clip his harness to the line before stepping through the oblong pressure door to the top deck.
Wind blew deafeningly through the fabric sheets strung up all over the deck, foiling the wind from blowing the soil and all the plant life off the deck and thousands of feet down and into the ocean. Over the deck he could see hundreds of other skyborn hard at work tilling the soil, the balloon of the nearby Ark II casting a deep shadow that blocked out the afternoon sun. Looking up to it, George could almost make out the aluminum gondola hanging beneath the massive zeppelin’s rigid hull.
He stepped up the stairs to the landing pad and waited, looking out over the horizon far below.
Just another day for a skyborn.